


only hope can keep us together

by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Love Letters, M/M, MCU Kink Bingo, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch/pseuds/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch
Summary: Five stories about Steve and Bucky, loosely connected, but all can be read as a stand-alone. Written for the mcukinkbingo.Chapter One: Sending Love Letters (N1)Chapter Two: Sex Toys - Vibrator (N2)Chapter Three: Roleplaying Captor and Captive (N3)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Stucky fic, just dipping my toe in really. I have a rough plan for the other four installments, but can't say for sure when the next chapter will be done. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title from The Police's "Message in a Bottle", which suddenly stuck in my head while writing (well, it was the Machine Head version but nvm).

 

 

_S leaned into the kiss, open mouth, wet puffy lips. Eager. B had known it would be like this, a force unleashed. Had tried to ready himself for it, but there’s things none of us are ever ready for. War. Lust. Love. He strained, hard and aching, for more touch and contact. S pressed against him with a smile. “Shhh, be quiet. “They might hear.” A searching palm, the rustle of clothes, the sigh of the wind in the cracks around the windows. “Yeah,” they breathed together, “more” and “just like that.”_

Steve closes the notebook with a blush creeping up his neck and a smile that feels bittersweet and brittle. He sees Bucky before him, dark hair hiding his face as he’s bent over his small green notebook, scribbling furiously in the dim light of their flat.

The book had been at the bottom of the metal box Natasha had brought him the other day. The remnants of his best friend’s life had been hidden in the depths of the Smithsonian’s storage vaults. The archivists had gone through the letters and decided that due to the private nature, they wouldn’t be part of the exhibition. When they had heard about Steve’s return, they’d contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. so he could decide what to do with the contents.

He’d stared at the box for two hours without opening it.

Then he’d gotten himself a drink just to occupy his hands. The whiskey had burned in his throat like a knife wound, but the soothing numbness it once provided had stayed out of reach. He’d opened the lid, closed it again when he found a picture of him and Bucky – smiling – lying on top. Had opened it again.

Going through Bucky’s papers and the letters from his sister, he’d felt incredibly old. Just a few weeks ago, this had been his life – notes about deployments, orders, sepia colored photographs from the frontlines. Now 70 years lay between the faded ink and his own memories, still fresh and cutting.

The little green notebook had been buried under all the other memorabilia like a forgotten toy.

_S gasped when B’s hand found its way into the vee of shivering thighs. Slick fingers met wet heat. The sinful clench, the hidden strength made B’s pulse race. That need for pleasure, to give and to receive, until they formed one body, it crushed his heart and grew it back stronger, stole his breath and gave him new lungs. Stronger, so much stronger than mere lust._

Steve cheeks flush, and he knows he shouldn’t be reading this – even after all this time, it feels like a violation of trust – , but he can’t help but wonder about whom Bucky may have written these lines, which one of the dames in his life inspired him to note down his dirty fantasies.

With a sense of awe and a good amount of embarrassment, he recognizes the first signs of arousal in his body. Since he woke up, sex had been a second, or rather fourth or fifth though in his mind. He hadn’t had time, he tells himself, but that’s only half the truth. It’s like the ice severed that connection to himself, a canyon of decades between him and the mere idea to touch himself.

_Pink. So delicate and oh so forbidden. B stares, finally allowed to stare, to touch, softly, to spread skin with his thumbs and dip them into inviting darkness, left, then right, just to make S squirm, beg, sigh. The flesh gives, as if it wants to suck him in, swallow him whole. His cock is dripping, a swollen mess that weeps unto the thin mattress and the threadbare linen. “Do it,” S murmurs, “fuck me.”_

The flush creeps up into Steve’s hairline, while a drop of sweat makes its way down his temple. Steve adjusts his sweatpants. It’s wrong, so very wrong to get turned on by Bucky’s awkward attempts at pornography, but he can’t stop reading. The page blurs before his eyes as he touches himself, just lightly, and the warmth of his hand travels through the fabric of his pants where he cups the outline of his erection. He can’t remember a girl with an S in her name, for the life of him. Did Bucky make her up? Did he experience all the things he wrote about or were they all figments of his imagination? It doesn’t matter really, and he’ll never get the answers he wants, but it nags him not to know the mysterious woman in the story. Bucky was his best friend. They never had secrets like that.

That is, Bucky never had.

_It’s tight and hot. B knew that, had anticipated it, but the feeling of being enveloped like this, the slow progression, deeper, deeper, tighter, hotter, deeper still, – his mind lay in shambles. S moaned with every inch of B penetrating that tightness, panted pitiful sobs into the space between them, as if it was way too much and not nearly enough. When they were as close as they could get, B took a careful breath. S looked wrecked already, sweating and trembling, grasping for B’s skin to push or pull, they didn’t know._

Steve lacks the background knowledge to bring the woman in the story to life. As much as he tries, her face stays in the shadows. Bucky though, Bucky he can imagine all too clearly. His broad back, the soft dip down to his hips, his strong thighs, the dusting of dark hair getting darker on the inside of his legs, the movement of his backside as he thrusts into the indistinct person underneath him. Steve could draw the sharp angles and generous curves of his body in one swift stroke. Can hear Bucky’s voice, low and rough, spitting out curses and praise, “fuck, darling, yeah, so good”, yes, Steve can conjure all that without any conscious effort.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it. He squeezes shut his eyes, and just like that the faceless woman is gone. It’s his legs that lie open to give Bucky room to fuck him, his hands scrambling for purchase on those shoulders, his own mouth gasping through spit-slick, bitten lips.

_B tried to hold back. This was a moment to savor, maybe the only chance they’ll get. He stilled his movements, inhale – exhale, to just feel. S wouldn’t have that. “Come on, I’m not some delicate princess,” S pleaded while rocking and squirming to get B moving again, feel him deeper. A hand grabbed B’s neck to pull him down into a searing kiss, the other dug into his ass to spur him on. He shouldn’t be surprised. S had always known how to make people bow to his will. And B obliged. Sharp snaps of his hips buried him in the body of his lover, until the only reality he knew were the hunger of the body underneath him and the need to fill it with everything he had, everything he was, until he lost himself in the wet slap of skin and broken moans and the thunder of his heart._

Steve gives up. He slips his hand past the waistband of his sweatpants while pictures of Bucky above him, pounding into him with all he had, fill his mind. He’d dreamed about this so often, in the quiet hours of the night, when Bucky had lain just a few feet away in their room in Brooklyn, when Bucky had lain an ocean away in the trenches, when Bucky had lain a few feet away from him in the army tents, close again, but never close enough.

He’d always dreamed about this, still does. But Bucky’s words give the fantasy new depths, as if he’s holding two translucent photographs over each other to create a third dimension.

His palm is cool against his straining dick. Thick drops coat the head and he spreads them, makes himself wet and slick. He still feels strange in his own grip, cock and hand bigger than he was used to, and after – after the serum, he hadn’t had much time to get accustomed. All he’d had were a few stolen moments, biting his fist, pumping as fast as he could, in a bathroom stall or his sleeping bag. Capain America didn’t jerk off like the next fella. He was better than that.

But now.

The leisure to learn the girth and the length against his palm and find out, that oh yes, he still likes the slow tight strokes best, root to tip, a squeeze just this side of painful.

He leans back into the pillows, notebook in one hand, pulsing dick in the other, feeling more decadent, more alive than he felt … maybe ever. His vision gets blurry as the pressure rises in his gut, tightens his balls, forces more liquid from this unfamiliar cock that jumps and swells in his hand just like the old one. He rocks up into his fist, chasing his climax, intent to time it with the words from Bucky’s hand.

He stares at the page for long moments before he realizes the story ended abruptly.

 _– So you just walked in here, oblivious, while I was writing all these filthy things about us. There’s this little smile on your face, the one I pride myself to be reserved only for me, even if I know that’s wishful thinking._ What you writing?, _you ask as you plop down on your bed, and I chuckle and throw a pillow at you. It’s all I can do. Last night you asked me if I could ever imagine sharing my life with one person, one special person. I can. It’s you, it’s always been you._

Steve’s cock jerks in his fist, he’s close, much closer than he thought, and his mind his racing against his stammering heart. Who? Who stood in their room, blind to Bucky’s love and desperate want –

His gaze zeroes in on the next word just as the wave of his orgasm hits and sucks him under, drowns his scrambled thoughts and takes away the last sliver of sure, solid ground. He cries out with the force of it while he comes all over his fist and his stomach. As his pleasure pulses out of him, spurt after thick spurt, his hand stills, and shock sets in.

One word. He blinks, but it’s still there.

_Punk._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no (real) Bucky in this chapter, but he'll show up in the next one, promise. Unbeta'd.

 

 

Steve stares down at the two objects in his hands and considers his life choices.

It’s a dark corner in an “adult” store in New Jersey. It took two hours of public transport, a baseball cap, dark glasses and a shady explanation that he had to _take care of a few things_ to bring him here. The store is well equipped and tastefully decorated, not at all what he had expected. There’s shelves full of magazines, handcuffs, dolls with funny red o’s instead of a mouth, whips, lingerie and a lot of things he’s never seen and doesn’t dare ask the bored staff about.

In his right hand, he holds a box with a life-like imitation of a cock. It looks a lot like his own, and Steve’s not sure how he feels about that. Pale skin, darker veins, a flared wider head, the length and girth familiar. Is it weird to be turned on by that? He doesn’t know and there’s no one he could ask. The rules seem to be different now. In this new world people openly admit to sexual preferences of all kinds. The other night, a guy in a TV show talked about his erotic attraction to bridges. Steve guesses it’s okay then to ogle a replica of his own prick, but he’s not really comfortable doing it.

In his left hand, he holds a box with a pink object that doesn’t look like a cock at all. The thick tip is slightly angled, curves into four bulges, each one wider than the last. The base flares into a suction cup – a fact that sets Steve’s mind reeling with the possibilities. The toy’s surface looks soft and sleek, flexible enough to try angle it the way he wants, and, most importantly, thicker and longer than his own fingers. He blushes when he realizes he’s stirring in his pants just thinking about it. It gets worse when he reads the print: The packaging promises “new heights of pleasure – 9 powerful vibration modes”.

He’s almost a hundred years old and got thrown into a fantastic future that puts the novels he read as a kid to shame. He fights alongside gods from other worlds, a big green mutant and a guy with a talking metal suit. But somehow, this is the moment is all catches up with him. He’s about to buy a vibrating pink rubber stick the size of a baton to take it home and put it in his ass. Oh yeah, and while he does that he will try not to think about his dead best friend who somehow forget to tell him that he was in love with him.

His lips curl in distaste at his own crass thoughts. With a deep breath he tries to put the memory of the unusual love confession he found in Bucky’s notebook out of his mind and to concentrate on the task at hand. He puts one box back on the shelf and makes his way to the counter.

Nobody seemed to recognize him on the way here, and he hopes it stays that way. The young guy at the register doesn’t look up from his phone while he bills the items and mumbles a fairly ridiculous sum. Another thing Steve has yet to get used to. Bucky and him could have lived to months – and well at that – , with the money he just spent for a sex toy. He shakes his head while he counts the bills and hands them over.

“Have fun with your purchase and visit us again,” the kid mumbles in an automatic voice while he packs up Steve’s stuff, like this is nothing special, a big guy buying a vibrating fake-cock.

Steve nods, afraid his voice will give him away. He grabs the nondescript plastic bag and forces himself not to run from the store. This is terrifying. His palms sweat where he holds the bag, and – given the choice – he’d prefer to take on a hundred HYDRA soldiers to ever doing this again. He really hopes the trip was worth it.

The bag sits in his lap the whole ride home. He holds it tight as if it’d jump from his hold if he isn’t careful, plop open for everyone to see. Another passenger eyes him curiously, and for a moment, Steve is sure she knows what he just bought, but then she’s looking out of the window again, the moment over, and Steve releases the breath he’d been holding.

It’s another two days until he gathers the courage to try. He is antsy the whole day, fidgets through the afternoon meeting, then decides to take a long shower. He hopes it will soothe his nerves, but it does nothing to quell his excitement. The water tickles down his body in a soft caress, and he’s hyper aware of every single sensitive spot. One would think that a super soldier would feel less and somehow become numb to physical stimulation, but Steve finds the opposite to be true. He can’t remember his nipples being this responsive, for one thing. The slightest touch makes the pebble, sending shivers down his spine despite the hot water. He flicks his fingertip against one and rubs over it in a lazy motion.

His dick is becoming a nuisance. Whenever he thought about what he planned to do this evening – and he thought about it often – it perked up from the sudden heat in his gut. Now it’s filling out, a heavy weight between his legs, and Steve watches with curious fascination as it transforms, lengthens, hardens under his gaze. The water sloshing down his back, down between his cheeks, feels like a gentle touch. He turns into the spray and opens his mouth to let it flow over his lips. He didn’t even put a hand on himself yet and arousal is already coursing through every part of him. He could take the edge off, a few strokes would be enough, but he wants to draw this out, make himself wait.

He steps out of the shower and grabs the towel. After the heat of the water, even the soft fabric feels rough against his skin, the floor cool against the soles of his feet. He glances to the side, watching himself in the mirror. He’s flushed from the shower, cheeks tinged even darker from arousal, and his dick stands out from his groin, hard and thick, an obscene picture. He trails his hand down his pecs, over his abs and over his thighs and back to his ass to tease a finger between his cheeks and rub over his hole. He watches as his reflection gasps and sucks in his bottom lip, an idea forming in his mind. The decision is made in a second, before he can think it through. He stumbles out into the bedroom and grabs the vibrator and his lube.

Lubricant had been a revelation. He comes from a time of spit and – a rare treat – Vaseline, an era when wandering into a store to buy a bottle of cherry-flavored Astroglide would have sounded as fantastic as walking on the moon. People did both of that now, apparently, and as far as he’s concerned, the invention of lube had been the bigger milestone for humankind.

Back in the bathroom, he locks the door and resumes his place in front of the sink, widens his stance and drizzles a fair amount of lube into his hand. There’s a floor-deep dressing mirror to the side, and he turns his head to see how his slick fingers sink between his cheeks. The lube is cold, a pleasant contrast to his heated skin. He braces himself on the sink and circles his index finger around his hole, teasing himself, before he slowly presses in.

He’s done this a lot in the last weeks, after his libido had come back full-force, since he first read Bucky’s notes about two lovers, the two of them finding pleasure in each other. Steve should be used by now to the slight pressure against his entrance, the slow stretch. Still, that first breach never fails to make him gasp and shudder with amazement. He slides his finger deeper, pulls out to rub around the sensitive skin, before he dips in again, all the while watching his own reactions. He’s bent slightly forward, head down and turned, the eyes looking back at him big and nearly black. It’s more than narcissism, he thinks, though he has to admit he likes the picture of his modified body, the strength clearly visible when his muscles bulge and dip with his motions. But there’s more to it. The thought that someone else could see him like this, opening himself up, is what makes his mind spin with want. Precome bubbles from his cock and drips onto the tiles when he imagines another figure in the room, a pale blue gaze locked on his most intimate parts.

 _Go on_ , the man would say in a familiar voice, words a little bit slurred, _I know you can take more_.

Steve pulls out his finger and comes back with two, hard, and gasps at the burning stretch. He can’t go deep from this angle, just pumps in and out to feel his muscle widen and accommodate the intrusion. When he scissors his fingers against the tightness his thighs shake with how good it feels, full and used, and, unable to stop his tumbling thought, he wonders how Bucky would react. He would stand back and watch, maybe cup his dick through his pants. Being naked and exposed like this while Bucky would be fully clothed, yeah, that – god, he’d like that.

His gaze lands on the pink vibrator. It’s had is wider than two of his fingers, and he should take more time to prep, but he can’t wait. Pulling his slick fingers from his hole, he wipes them on a towel and grabs his purchase to spread lube over the silky surface.

He turns to the mirror again when he reaches behind himself and angles the toy, holds the fat head against his entrance, just enough to feel the pressure without pushing in just yet. Bucky would play with him like this, would make him wait, maybe make him beg.

 _You want it?_ He’d ask, his sensual smile a challenge, but his eyes would be warm and betraying his own need. _You’ll have to work for it, babe._

Instead of using his hand, Steve moves his whole body back against the toy, slowly, to spear himself on it, just like he would if it were a real cock, Bucky’s cock. He’s panting by the time he gets to the widest part of the bulbous head, and sighs when it slips past the first tight ring. Three bumps more to go. Every one aches in that perfect way the first did, spreading him open wider and wider. He cries out when the thick, curved head finds his prostate and puts constant pressure on that bundle of nerves.

It’s slow progress, torturous, but Steve quells the urge to push faster, harder, in order to experience every part of it as intense as possible. When he’s stuffed full and the flared base meets his cheeks, he holds the toy just to revel in the feeling of it inside him, foreign and new and amazing. He looks wrecked in the mirror, sweat running down his temples and his back, chest heaving broken breaths. He grips the sink tighter and steadies his stance, then pulls the toy out and pushes back in in one long thrust, and he knees nearly buckle under him. Fuck, that’s something else than his fingers alright.

The image in the mirror is unbelievably dirty, his body swallows the thick pink plastic like it’s made for it. He fucks himself deep and hard, pushes back against the intrusion with every thrust and angles his hips so the tip punches his prostate with precision. Looking down at his cock, he finds it weeping a steady stream of liquid, bouncing with his movements, thick, swollen, begging to be touched, but Steve refuses to give in. Can he come like this? Should he try? The heat pooling in his gut spreads over his whole body, curls his toes and trembles along his spine. Groans fall from his mouth in time with the motion of his hand. He adjusts his grip on the toy, and – oh, fuck – what – he’d forgotten about the vibration.

His knees nearly give out when the foreign stimulation sends a shockwave through his body. A pitiful whimper echoes through the small room, and all he can do is hold himself upright while the toy resumes the onslaught on his senses, buzzes deep inside him and sets his nerves on fire. It takes a minute or maybe five until he can see clearly again. Tentatively, he tries to move the vibrator, chokes out moans when the smallest adjustment seems to find another hypersensitive spot he didn’t know he had, and then another.

Bucky would love this, would use the modern technology to his advantage and tease Steve endlessly with it. He’d pull the toy out slowly to make Steve feel every bump and then penetrate him again in that perfect angle that would make him sob with overstimulation. Being fucked like this by someone else, the image does things to Steve, the idea that he would be a strung-out mess even before Bucky would get his own cock in him. He’d be all loose and open, slick and wet by the time Bucky would deem him ready.

 _Just a little more_ , Bucky’d tell him, voice hoarse and rough.

A new idea burns through his lust-addled brain. Steve looks around and settles on the shower. He pulls out the toy and arranges the suction cup on one wall. He dials up the intensity of the vibration with trembling fingers, then braces his hands on the opposite wall, thankful for the solid built of his bathroom. He doesn’t hesitate or linger, just pushes back until he’s impaled on the toy again and starts thrusting back on it. It’s way too much, and his cries turn into sobs while he fights to keep up a steady rhythm. He’s close, so close, can taste the release on his tongue, in the stumbling beat of his heart against his ribs. His dick is pulsing and aching. His skin is too tight. His throat is dry and hoarse. The slapping sounds are louder now, mixed with the noise of his needy whines and groans.

 _Buck, please_ , he whispers, almost delirious with want, _please_ –

He rocks back, hard, slams the vibrating head against his insides with a new force and clenches around the toy as his cock jerks between his legs. A scream rips from his lips, and the pressure in his gut snaps. White light explodes behind his lids – his release splashes against the white tiles – his ass spasms around the vibrator – and he keeps coming, whole body convulsing, pulse after pulse, while the insistent stimulation inside him never stops, wrings wave after wave out of him.

Tears are streaming down his face by the time the seizures stop. When he’s finally, blessfully spent he leans forward to let the toy slip free from his abused hole.

For long moments, the still buzzing toy and his shaking breaths are only sounds in the room. He leans against the cool tiles and lets his tears run free, body and mind overwhelmed from the intense pleasure. His every muscle is sore and tired from the exertion, but his heart feels heavy and hollow.

He had promised himself to ban Bucky from his fantasies. Once again, he failed.

Quiet sobs tremble through him while he remembers how much more intense the experience felt when he had imagined to share it. He’s almost invincible now, with his superhuman body, but the wounds inflicted before the serum just won’t heal, and if he’s honest with himself he doesn’t want them to. His chest aches with everything he’s lost, but that ache is part of who he is and he doesn’t know how to become someone else. He wipes the tears from his cheeks and straightens. He’s boneless and tired when he stumbles over to his bedroom, crawls under the sheets and grabs blindly for Bucky’s notebook.

When he falls asleep, his fingers are still tracing the edges of the paper.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is a quite free interpretation of the square. 
> 
> Fair warning: My smut has a tendency to get angsty, I don't know how or why this got so sad. I'm sorry.

 

 

He shouldn’t have brought the vibranium handcuffs, Steve thinks as he dangles from the ceiling of an abandoned warehouse. He can only barely reach the floor with his toes, his arms are stretched high above his head and his mood is getting darker by the minute.

Bucky leans against a table a few feet away, watches as Steve tries to find his equilibrium.

Steve followed his trail through five countries. He knew he would only find him if Bucky wanted it, so he made his pursuit as visible as possible, walked around in his armor and asked random strangers if they’d seen a man with a metal arm. In the end, it annoyed Bucky enough to get him to react. What Steve hadn’t anticipated was how quick Bucky had outmaneuvered him when he finally caught up with him. Bucky stole his fucking handcuffs from his belt and secured him on an exposed girder. He could maybe bring the construction down, but to what end? He wanted to talk to Bucky; he might as well do it in this position as long as the only thing that gets hurt is his pride.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just seizes him up with that calculating gaze as if he’s planning a shot. His powerful body is perfectly still. Steve rakes his gaze over him to find all the details that are new about him, as well as all the things that are the same. New is the heavy muscle and the coldness in his eyes. Old is the curve of his mouth and the casual elegance of his pose. New is not knowing what Bucky will do next, his inability to read his expression; old is the implicit trust he feels even in this position, stupid as it may be.

“Why do you follow me?” Bucky crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Steve swallows his anger and levels his voice. “You’re my best friend, Buck, I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m not your friend, you don’t know me,” Bucky says, slow, as if he’s testing out the words.

“You are and I do.” Steve is glad that he sounds more certain than he feels.

Bucky chuckles. It’s an unpleasant sound.

They could play this game for hours: Bucky pretending to have lost all his memories, Steve trying to coax an admission out of him, that he sure as hell knows who Steve is and that he let himself be found. Steve has a feeling it would be a frustrating experience for both of them. He has to get Bucky out of his shell, in any way possible. The whole world thinks Steve is the perfect boy-next-door. He lets them believe it. But if he needs to, he can play dirty.

“This reminds me of one of your stories,” Steve mentions in an almost lazy voice. Bucky lifts his right eyebrow. “You won’t remember of course, but you had a notebook full of fantasies about you and me, you know, doing the do.” He raises an eyebrow in an attempt to replicate the cocky smirk he’s seen on Bucky’s face a million times.

That gets Bucky’s attention. “Doing the _what_?”

“Screwing, Bucky. You wrote a hundred and twenty pages about you and me fucking, and I had to find out 70 years after the fact.” Okay, that sudden anger wasn’t planned. But oh yeah, he is angry that he had to find out like this. He tries to swallow the acid taste in his mouth, because shouting at Bucky won’t help things, of that he’s sure.

“One of those scenarios resembled this a lot.” If he wasn’t shackled, he’d made a sweeping gesture to indicate the setting and his own position.

“Did it now.” Bucky’s eyes are squinting into slits, as if he’s not sure about the game they’re playing and his mind is racing to make sense of Steve’s strategy.

“Yeah, I … in the story you had me bound to a wall before you had your way with me.” Steve’s getting a little breathless as he remembers reading that for the first time. He’d been surprised how much he liked the idea. As a matter of fact, he still likes the idea. A little too much.

“Hmmm-mmmh. What did I do?” Bucky’s gaze travels over Steve’s body like a caress, until it settles on his groin. Damn that Captain America suit for being so flexible. His filling erection must be clearly visible through the stretching material, and it swells even more under Bucky’s curious gaze.

“You, uh, you touched me and kissed me while I could do nothing but let it happen. And then you sank to your knees and sucked my dick. Always thought your lips were made for that, stretching around my cock.” The last part wasn’t in the book, but he might as well add his own thoughts.

“I never wrote that.”

Gotcha. Steve smiles, despite the fact that his wrists start to hurt and he’s hard in a situation that calls for a clear mind. “So you do remember.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement and a challenge.

“Bits and pieces, it’s all a bit blurry. Doesn’t matter anyway, I’m not that person anymore.” Bucky’s eyes flicker to the side. He’s lying.

“Bullshit.” Steve nods in the rough direction of Bucky’s pants. “And some parts seem to remember just fine.”

Bucky looks down at himself as if he’s never seen that reaction before. It tells Steve more about his state of mind than the whole conversation. How long has it been since he felt anything good, Steve wonders. His chest aches for his friend.

“Oh that, ignore it, it will be gone soon.” He roughly adjusts himself and it makes Steve cringe to think being aroused is just something to forget about for Bucky. On the other hand, it had been the same for him until a few weeks ago. They were both pretty messed up.

Bucky stares again and Steve tries to not get flustered under the scrutiny, tries to relax his tensed muscles.

The silence stretches on. A stand-off of sorts, though Steve doesn’t know what the goal is. The battle isn’t between Bucky and him, he thinks, it’s in Bucky’s mind alone.

“I want–“ Bucky starts and falls silent again.

“Everything, Buck, whatever it is…” Steve says, voice low as if he’s talking to a frightened animal, which doesn’t seem too far from the mark, when half of what he suspects about Bucky’s past is true, “just tell me.”

Bucky shakes his head, but he moves closer. “I dream about you. Even when I didn’t know who I was, there was this person in my dreams that made me feel …, but he had no name, and sometimes, not even a face, and …” He trails off. “If this is what I wanted before … before I fell …” He sinks to his knees in front of Steve and trails his hands over his shins, up, up.

Steve looks down at him, crouched at his feet, face an open question. Bucky looks very young all of a sudden, insecure and disoriented, confused by his memories and his own desires. Steve doesn’t think Bucky himself could say why he does this, so should he say no? If he rejects this offer, he might lose Bucky for good, but consenting while he can’t be sure about Bucky’s state of mind seems wrong, too.

“You’re overthinking this, Rogers,” Bucky mumbles, and for a second, Steve sees his old friend shining through the darkness, and the decision is made. It might be selfish, but he’ll take whatever Bucky is offering.

“Yes,” he rasps against the dryness of his throat, and nods for good measure, “okay.”

Bucky’s hands wander higher, over Steve’s thighs up to his hips. It feels strange to be touched while he’s wearing the suit, the sensations dulled by the protective fabric. Bucky rubs his palm over the bulge in Steve’s pants, and okay, Steve is thankful for the properties of his suit now. Even this is almost too much. Bucky’s touching him. After all this time, Bucky’s touching him. The situation is all kinds of fucked-up, but in this moment, the fact that Bucky is alive and here and has his hands on Steve is all that matters.

“What did you like about the story,” Bucky mumbles while he keeps up his slow strokes and nuzzles his nose against the inside of Steve’s thigh.

“I… I don’t know. I liked the idea … to be bound … argh … and at your mercy, I guess.” Steve has no room to move against Bucky’s hand and it’s frustrating as hell, but at the same time, it makes everything Bucky does that much more intense. His metal hand reaches for Steve’s belt and clicks it open. It falls to the ground with a loud clank that echoes through the room. Steve is suddenly very aware of the fact that anybody could stumble in here at any given moment, and while he’s suited up like this, that person will know exactly who he is. Captain America, bound and about to be sucked off by the Winter Soldier. The internet would have a field day.

Bucky finds the hidden zipper for his pants – a move that took Steve a few weeks to perfect and of course it takes only a second for Bucky – and lowers it slowly. He uses his flesh hand to reach into Steve’s boxers and pull him out. And just like that, the time for doubt is over.

 

///

 

He’s not sure what makes him do it.

He is two people since he broke the conditioning. One part is frayed and blurred like an old movie. Dark spots on a film roll that starts and stops and cuts off in the middle of scenes. The other part is clear-cut pictures, thrown onto a table in no apparent order, but each image precise and disturbing, brutal.

He was James Buchanan Barnes, a man that liked to laugh and dance, a talented sniper, a coward and a fool who was in love with his best friend.

He was the Winter Soldier, an assassin with blood on his hands and shattered glass in his mind, deadly, cold and efficient.

Both need to be on their knees in front of Steve Rogers. One out of love and lust, the other one to feel anything at all, and maybe to repent for his sins in some depraved way. It’s fitting, he thinks. God will never forgive him, but Steve just might, he’s always been stupid like that.

His right hand circles the base of Steve’s erection while his left holds on to his leg to keep him steady. Steve’s skin is hot under his palm and his dick jumps in his grip as if it wants to get closer. Bucky opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue for a taste. He has never done this, he thinks, but he can’t be sure with his blotchy memory. Steve sighs above him. Bucky licks along the length of him, base to tip and circles his tongue around the head. He liked it when the girls did that, and Steve seems to like it, too.

“God,” Steve murmurs, “god, yes.”

So Bucky opens his mouth and spreads his lips around the head in a crude imitation of a kiss. It’s big and warm and it tastes like salt and sex. Bucky’s distantly aware of his own body’s reaction, and even if he ignores it for now, he’s surprised that he can still get aroused, that the ability wasn’t conditioned out of him along with his sanity. Slow licks and careful sucking coax the most interesting sounds out of Steve. He makes it his mission to hear as many different sighs and moans as possible, maybe a cry or a groan, a benediction for the sinner.

Pushing forward, he takes more of Steve into his mouth while he keeps licking the underside and stroking the base. He risks a glance up and finds Steve staring down at him with something like awe on his face, adoration and desire slacking his jaw, his plump bottom lip red and glistening as if he’s bitten down on it. Steve holds his gaze. His lips move as if he wants to say something, but snap shut again when Bucky hollows his cheeks and sucks him in even deeper.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. Bucky is pretty sure Captain America’s still not swearing all that often, and it gives him a surprising jolt of pride to hear him slip like that.

“I want to touch you so bad, Buck. I wanted to touch you my whole life.”

Bucky closes his eyes to flee from that insistent gaze. He wanted that, too, wanted to be held by Steve, kissed, caressed, but it’s a distant memory as if it’s someone else’s. Now the sheer notion makes panic bubble in his gut. He can’t make himself vulnerable like that. The idea that Steve could see him, really see him, see the marks of what was done to him written all over his body, sends cold shivers down his spine. No, this is better. It’s safe. He can give this and keep it as a new memory that doesn’t involve killing and destruction. He’s going to make it good.

He concentrates on his task. The tip of Steve’s cock is meeting the back of his throat. Bucky reaches around Steve’s ass and pulls him forward, forward until the muscles closing off his throat give and his nose brushes Steve’s pubic hair and he’s taken all of him. Breathing gets difficult, he’s inhaling carefully through his nose while swallows around the head of Steve’s cock–

Steve cries out his name. So Bucky pulls back, takes a deep breath, and does it again. And again. His blood is coursing hot through his veins, as if each time his name falls from Steve’s lips, another part of him comes to life, another part of his shattered self falls back into its place.

Through the fog of it all, he knows his knees are hurting from the hard floor and his throat is raw from gagging around the thickness of Steve’s cock, and he knows his own dick is pulsing between his legs, in his too tight jeans, the buttons digging painfully into sensitive flesh.

All that is there, but distant. It doesn’t matter.

The only thing that’s real is the way Steve swells even more in his mouth. The cries transform into a crescending litany of broken sobs and groans. The muscles of Steve’s ass twitch under Bucky hands. He must be getting close, and Bucky moves faster, bobs his head back and forth, wondering how much better this would be if Steve fucked his mouth, held the back of his head in his big hands while he took what he needed from Bucky, used him like the tool he is.

“Buck, wait, I- I’m,” Steve stutters and tries to move his hips away from Bucky, but he keeps his grip tight and his pace steady, so he can feel Steve’s body tensing and trembling. An electric current zings down his spine when the first splash of Steve’s release hits the back of his throat. Steve’s whole body jerks in his restraints as his orgasm runs through him and he empties himself into Bucky’s waiting mouth, until Bucky can’t swallow it all, and warm come drips over Bucky’s lips, runs down his chin.

When it’s over, he lets Steve’s softening cock slip from his mouth so can catch the drops with his tongue. His breath is coming harsh and labored, his heart is beating like a hammer in his chest, his whole body feels warm and sated. He sits back on his heels and denies the urge to fold his hands for prayer like he did as a kid whenever he was in this position. Steve looks like the statue of a martyr, hanging from his restraint with a soft blissed smile on his full lips. Bucky tries to commit the image to memory. Steve’s beauty can’t make the ugly pictures go away, but it will be nice to have one that isn’t painted in blood.

Reality comes back slowly. The pain in his knees. And Bucky’s pants are wet and sticky. He looks down to find a wet spot spreading at the front of his jeans. Steve sees it, too.

“Did you just – holy hell, Buck.”

“Looks like it,” he murmurs and pokes the spot with his fingertip. He looks up again. Steve’s hair is dark from sweat and his face is flushed, but there’s worry in his eyes. The moment goes stale and tense. Bucky lifts to his feet in one swift motion. He has to get out of here.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers in a toneless voice. His throat hurts.

Steve shoots him one last look, filled with a thousand unsaid things. Bucky doesn’t need him to point out how much of a mistake this was. Steve lids flutter closed over his too-big eyes.

Bucky takes a careful step forward. He planned to just turn and leave, but he finds his right hand reaching out and the tip of his index finger tracing the outline of Steve’s bottom lip. Maybe, just – He leans in until his mouth fits over Steve’s. Steve makes a small sound, a whimper of sorts, and Bucky steals it from his lips. It’s not a real kiss, just a brush and a soft exchange of warmth and breath.

Blindly, he reaches up and opens the handcuffs, his left arm around Steve’s middle to keep him from falling. Steve sinks down and Bucky helps him sit on the ground, crouching in front of him, and presses another kiss to his sweaty temple.

Steve’s eyes are still closed and he doesn’t move, legs splayed out and arms hanging down his sides like a puppet with cut strings.

Bucky stands.

“You leaving?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods, then clears his throat, swallows down the thick lump that’s building there. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m –“ He rakes a hand through his hair. “I have to go. Don’t follow me anymore.”

Steve buries his head in his hands. “Will I see you again.” His voice is dull and shaky. The old Bucky would go over and put his arms around him and tell him everything will be alright. It’s a promise he can’t make anymore. It was a lie to begin with.

“I don’t know, Steve, I really don’t know,” he says. There’s wetness on his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe it away, just turns on his heels and crosses the expanse of the room in long strides. When he’s at the door he takes one look back. Steve hasn’t moved. He still looks like a broken doll.

And it’s Bucky that broke him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [procasdeanating](https://procasdeanating.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come say hi!


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